In fact, the two were nearly identical in stature so that Dunk had the strange impression they were twins. Their uniform dress — dark robes sashed with red ropes and featuring a frothing Wolf embroidered across their chests — only emphasised the effect.
“Who are they?” Dunk asked, feigning indifference. As he spoke, he knew that the duo was aware he was talking about them, even if they were too far away to hear his words.
“GWs,” Slick said in what he seemed to think was a hushed whisper, although in his drunkenness it was more like a soft shout. “Game Wizards. They work for the Cabalvision networks to keep the teams in line.” He pointed unsubtly at the wizards’ uniforms. “Those two must be here for Wolf Sports.”
“Are they the law around here?” Dunk was confused. What business was it of these people what happened in the Hackers’ camp?
Lästiges giggled. On anyone else, this might have seemed cute, but with her it was clearly meant to be cruel. “Oh, they’re much worse. The Cabalvision networks make a fortune with these tournaments, and it’s their job to make sure no one damages the rating with silly things like, oh, I don’t know—murdering a dozen of your fellow prospects.”
Dunk tried to feign indifference and change the subject. “Slick,” he said, “do you know anywhere around here I can find myself a good blade? I feel naked without a proper sword on my hip.”
Slick pulled his attention away from the GWs slowly. “Wha? Oh, yeah, son. We’ll see what we can do about that. First thing tomorrow.”
“I’ve done what I can to help here,” Lästiges said merrily. “I’d like to interview you sometime later, Dunk, maybe when you’re a bit more available. Perhaps we could do you and your brother at the same time.”
Dunk stared into his stein. “I haven’t seen my brother in three years.”
“All the better,” Lästiges said. “I just love family reunions, especially under such happy circumstances.”
Dunk gripped the handle of his stein and tried to convince himself the beer in it would be better in his belly than all over the reporter. When he looked over his shoulder to gauge the distance to his target, she was gone. He glanced at the door across the crowded room and saw her disappearing into Magritta’s early dusk.
“Do I have to worry about the law in Magritta?” Dunk asked Slick.
“Ordinarily, yes,” the halfling said. “But this is during one of the four Major Tournaments. The prince of Magritta doesn’t want any major disruptions during this event. It brings a lot of crowns into the city’s coffers and, by extension, into his. He’s usually happy to leave things to the Game Wizards instead.”
“How much do I have to worry about them?” Dunk tried to keep his voice steady.
“Not too much, I’d say, son.”
“How’s that?” Dunk shot a look at the halfling and saw him gazing toward the exit.
“They’re on their way out of here right now.”
Dunk screwed up his face for a moment as he tried to figure out what was going on. He thought these Game Wizards would at least want to question him. Maybe Lästiges was leading them on to their next “suspect” instead.
“Whew!” a voice said from behind Dunk and Slick. “I thought those two would never leave.”
12
The young warrior and the halfling turned toward the voice as one. There they saw a greasy creature with wide, green eyes and a long, wide nose with a wart on each side of it. Oily wisps of colourless hair swept aimlessly over his sunburned scalp and weeping patches of acne covered his pustuled face. He extended his hand to Dunk and then to Slick, who shook it, mostly because they were too stunned by the man to think better of the gesture.
“Name’s Gunther the Gobbo,” the man said. His high-pitched voice seemed to be always on the verge of breaking into a mad cackle. “I’ve come to talk with your boy here. I understand he’s quite a… talent.”
Dunk nodded queasily. Slick spoke up, eager as a stray dog presented with a plate of raw beef. “You have that right. He’s the best young recruit I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen them all for the past fifty years. Take my word for it this kid’s bound for the Hall of Fame.”
Gunther nodded excitedly. The way his head bobbed, Dunk wasn’t sure it was properly attached to his neck. “Great, great! That’s just what I hear.” Then Gunther’s tone lowered into a comic imitation of conspiratorial. “I also hear you had some problems today, perhaps of your own creation.”
“I didn’t kill all those people!” Dunk shouted. He’d had enough of the accusations, especially from people he’d just met.
The entire room fell silent, and all eyes snapped over to Dunk.
“Of course, you didn’t, son,” Slick said awkwardly. “It was a bloody war, and I’m sure you only killed a small percentage of them.”
The room burst into laughter, and the patrons and staff went back to their own conversations.
“Well played,” Gunther said to Slick, oozing sick admiration. “Just the kind of person I’d like to be in business with.”
“What are you selling?” Dunk asked.
“Ha!” Gunther said. “That’s funny, kid. You must be new around here. I’m not selling. I’m buying.”
Dunk shot Slick a what’s-he-talking-about look. The halfling, still standing on his barstool, put an arm around the young warrior as he spoke.
“Gunther the Gobbo here, he’s one of the biggest bookmakers in the Old World. He takes bets from all comers, sets the odds, then pays the winners and collects from the losers. Best of all Gunther here has set himself up as an odds making expert on Cabalvision too.”
“I used to appear on CBS, but Wolf Sports just picked me up,” Gunther said as he flashed Dunk a smile that reminded him of the chimera.
“CBS?” Dunk asked Slick.
“Crystal Ball Service. One of the Cabalvision networks. It conjures images into crystal balls around the Old World rather than popping them into the minds of subscribers.” The halfling pointed out the large, glassy balls hanging over the bar and in various corners of the pub. They were dark and cloudy now, but Dunk suspected that was because no games were being played at the moment.
“So, kid,” Gunther said, barely catching the drool from his chin with a red velvet handkerchief that looked like it had been trapped in such service for years. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m buying?”
Dunk looked Gunther up and down again, then shook his head. “No.”
The young warrior had expected the bookie’s face to fall, but Gunther’s grin just widened, and his handkerchief lost its battle with the drool for a moment. “C’mon, kid, all the rookies are shy the first time they meet me. Don’t you sweat it. Ask me.”
Dunk started to shake his head again, but Slick interrupted. “Tell him,” the halfling said.
Gunther slapped Slick on the back and nearly knocked him from his barstool. Trying to right himself, the halfling lurched backward and fell neatly behind the bar.
“Oi!” the burly bartender said as he snatched Slick up and shoved him back onto his stool. The back of the halfling’s green jacket was soaked with some strange mixture that smelled flammable. “I’ve warned you before about trying to sneak back here for a drink!”
“You must have me mixed up with someone else,” Slick said, as politely as he could, trying to press his curly hair back into place. His voice squeaked like that of a talking mouse. “I’ve never been here before.”
The bartender, a dark-haired man with a bushy moustache and a tattooed goatee glared at Slick for a moment before tossing a bar rag at him in disgust. “Right!” he said as he went back to serving drinks to a pack of skaven — walking ratmen — at the other end of the bar. “You half-pints all look the same to me,” he muttered.
Slick dried his hair off with the bar rag, then looked at it in disgust and tossed it back over his shoulder. “You were saying?” he asked Gunther.
“I heard about your problems earlier today,” the bookie said. “I can help.”
> “News travels fast,” Dunk said, instantly suspicious.
“How?” asked Slick, ignoring Dunk.
Gunther leaned in towards them, and whispered low enough that only they could hear. “I can get your boy here on the team of your choice.”
“How’s that?” Dunk asked.
Slick put a hand on the young warrior’s chest. “Now, son. When someone of the Gobbo’s stature offers to lend you a hand, the polite thing to do is accept.”
Gunther gave Slick an unintentionally horrible toothy grin. Things were caught in there that were rotted worse than the teeth that held them. The stench caused Dunk to reel back. He took another pull from his stein to kill the smell.
“You’re a creature I can do business with,” Gunther said to Slick, and the two grinned at each other like cats about to split a wounded eagle.
“How can you deliver on a promise like that?” Dunk asked. He ignored the dirty look Slick shot him.
Gunther narrowed his eyes at Dunk. “Let’s just say that in my line of work a lot of people end up owing me favours.”
“What’s the catch?” Dunk asked, returning Gunther’s glare.
The bookie’s face broke into a smile again. “No catch, kid. Just a couple of friends doing each other favours.”
“We’re not friends.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere, son,” Slick said. “We haven’t known each other all that long ourselves.”
“We haven’t done him any favours.”
“Not yet,” said Gunther, a knowing look in his eyes, “but someday, when I need one, you will.”
Dunk nodded. “You fix the games you take bets on.”
Slick slapped a hand over Dunk’s mouth. “Son!” he said in a mixture of exasperation and shame. “Don’t you talk like that to our new friend.”
“Your new friend,” Dunk said as he pulled the halfling’s tiny hand from his face.
“Any team you like,” Gunther said. “Interested in playing for the Reavers? I can make it happen.”
“Not interested.”
Slick gasped in heartbreaking disappointment.
“Okay, kid,” Gunther said. “Have it your way, the hard way. Those people who aren’t my friends sometimes find it extra hard to win a spot on a team.”
“Is that a threat?” a voice from behind Dunk said. The young warrior had been so focused on Gunther that he hadn’t heard the speaker come up behind him.
Dunk spun about on his stool, and there stood his brother Dirk. Dunk often marvelled that they had both come from the same set of parents. Where Dunk was broad and dark, Dirk was lithe and light. The younger Hoffman stood an inch or two taller than Dunk but weighed twenty pounds less. Under his straight, white-blond hair, his bright blue eyes glared straight past Dunk and down at Gunther.
“No!” Gunther said, back-pedalling a step or two. “Of course not I don’t work that way, Dirk, you know that.”
Dirk nodded. “I know exactly how you work, Gunther, so I’m going to warn you once: leave this man alone.”
Gunther regained some of his composure at this. “Look here,” he said. “The kid is an adult. He can make up his own mind.”
Dirk turned toward Dunk, finally looking him in the eye. “Do you want anything from the Gobbo?” he asked. As he spoke, he shook his head no.
Dunk hadn’t seen his brother in three years. He’d left long before the family had fallen apart, and never looked back. This had left Dunk alone to handle the Hoffnung clan’s catastrophic implosion. Despite this, he found himself glad to see his brother again. He had a few more scars and looked older than the years should have made him, but it was still Dirk for sure.
Dunk shook his head in tandem with his brother. “No,” he said.
“You heard him, Gunther,” Dirk said, turning back toward the bookie. “Decision’s made. Respect it.”
The Gobbo looked up at the two men, then flashed a wink at Slick. “No problem, Dirk. Always happy to do a favour for you.”
“It’s not a favour,” Dirk said darkly. “It’s an order.”
Gunther held up his hands in mock surrender, but he looked at Dunk before he turned to leave. “That’s okay,” he said. “There are lots more where you came from — wherever that is.”
The three watched the Gobbo leave. Dunk watched Slick dab at his eyes with his sleeve, then turn toward Dirk and offer his hand.
“So you’re Dunk’s brother,” the halfling said evenly. “I should have known.”
Dirk shook Slick’s hand. “I don’t tell all the family secrets.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Dunk said, jerking a thumb at the door through which the Gobbo had disappeared. As he spoke, he felt his resentment toward his brother rising in his chest.
“We’re brothers,” Dirk said. “Only I get to abuse you, and you didn’t seem to be handling it so well yourself.”
Dunk stepped off his barstool and stood nose to nose with Dirk. “I can manage. I did just fine without you for the past three years.”
An icy smirk spread across Dirk’s battle-scarred face. “That’s not what I heard from Lehrer.”
Dunk’s face flushed with shame. He bowed his head to hunt for some self-control as he felt his fist clenching. Another comment like that from Dirk, and it would find itself flying toward his face all on its own.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
The melodious voice sounded out of place here in the Bad Water, like a morning dove singing against the background of a catfight. Dunk raised his head to see its owner, and his breath left him.
“My apologies,” Dirk said to Dunk, although the young warrior still ignored him. “This is my team-mate, Spinne Schonheit. Spinne, this is my older brother Dunk.”
Spinne stood as tall as Dunk, although that was due to the high-heeled leather boots that stretched up to the back of her knees. Her long, strawberry blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders, where it was caught in a single, thick braid intertwined with ribbons of silver and gold. Her wide blue-grey eyes transfixed Dunk, holding him paralysed in their bright gaze. The words that fell from her wide, sensual lips each seemed so precious that Dunk wanted to hunt down each one and cage it forever.
“My pleasure,” Spinne said in a voice as smooth as a fine chocolate liqueur. “You never mentioned you had a brother,” she said to Dirk, never taking her eyes off Dunk. “Is it Dunk Heldmann then?”
Dunk found he could not reply.
“Hoffnung, actually,” Dirk said. “Heldmann is my game name.”
Spinne smiled softly at this, and Dunk felt his heart would melt and run out through his boots.
“Have you come to see Dirk play?”
When Dunk didn’t reply, Slick leapt into the gap. “Actually,” he said, sticking out his hand for Spinne, “he’s here to play. I’m Slick Fullbelly, esquire, his agent.”
Spinne gave Slick her hand, and he bent over it brushing it gently with his lips. She giggled at that. Dunk had never been jealous of the halfling before, but now he ached with it.
“You?” Dirk stuck in at Dunk, his jaw gaping wide. “Really?”
“What team are you with?” Spinne asked. Dirk stared at his brother at this, evidently interested in the answer too.
“None at the moment, I’m afraid,” Slick said with open regret. “If you’d asked me this morning, I’d have said we’d be with the Hackers for sure, but an unfortunate event and an unjust accusation seem to have precluded that.”
“The Bad Bay Hackers?” Dirk said, still gaping at his older brother. “I heard half their recruits were murdered this—” He cut himself off as he goggled at Dunk. “That was… that couldn’t have been… you?”
Spinne flashed a wide, perfect, ruby-lipped smile hungry enough to devour a dragon whole. “I respect a man who goes for what he wants.”
“Well,” Dunk started, too stunned to be half as articulate as he wanted, “it wasn’t really like that.”
“I can’t believe my ears,” Dirk said, holdin
g his head with both hands. “After what Lehrer told me, I thought you’d sunk as low as you could, but murdering people to get on a Blood Bowl team? That’s, well, that’s impossible, isn’t it?”
Dunk suddenly remembered how angry he was with his brother. “How would you know?” he asked. “Where have you been for the past three years? Out chasing after glory and gold! Where were you when I needed you?”
Dirk’s demeanour turned glacier-cold. “I could ask the same of you, brother.”
Seeing red, Dunk smashed his stein down on the top of the bar. Beer and shards of pottery splattered everywhere. “That’s it!” he roared at his brother.
Dirk’s fist flashed out and flattened Dunk’s nose, sending him sprawling back along the bar and into the pack of skaven. The ratmen scattered before the much-larger man, drawing their knives as they went.
Dirk drew his blade and leapt to stand over his fallen brother, who sat covered in sawdust and the skavens’ spilled cider. “Back off!” he said to the ratmen, who chattered at him through their six-inch-long front teeth. “No one harms him but me!”
A blade sang out from someone standing just inside the nearby doorway and slapped Dirk’s sword away. The skaven skittered away, looking for some sort of hole in which to hide.
Dirk brought his blade back around to where it clashed against the newcomer’s. “What is it you want?” he snarled at the dark-skinned man.
Cavre glared steadily over their crossed swords. “I need to talk with your brother, Mr. Heldmann,” he said to Dirk, never taking his eyes from Dunk’s. “If that’s not too much to ask.”
13
Dunk had never been in Pegleg’s tent before. The coach didn’t fraternize much with his players, let alone lowly prospects. It was taller and better appointed than any other tent in the Hackers’ camp, floored with wooden planks that Dunk suspected had been taken from the deck of the Sea Chariot, perhaps directly from the captain’s own quarters. A large crystal ball sat in the centre of a large, oaken desk, the surface of which was carved with letters, lines and figures Dunk could not decipher.
[Blood Bowl 01] - Blood Bowl Page 10
